


Pandora's Box

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Complete, M/M, Post Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As many others are doing at this very moment, I had to write about the finale. Completed just before the season premiere.</p><p> John and Harold meet in secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed. Work in progress. This may turn into an ongoing fic about what may be happening between the finale and the start of next season and it may go on into AU territory. Or it may just be a series of scenes. Work with me here.

He sat down on the park bench, feeling open, exposed, as if he was being watched by a million eyes. His shoulder hurt but he forced himself not to rub at the wound. The dog next to him whimpered and nudged at his thigh.

“It’s all right, Bear,” he whispered. Should they have given the dog a new name too? Was Samaritan looking even for their _dog_?

 _Their_ dog? No, not theirs any more. Harold was worried about Bear, remembering how badly he missed John when he was locked in Rikers, how happy Bear was when John finally came home…

 _Home…_ Their home was gone too. The library was compromised. Harold had loved that building, even more because it had been chosen by Nathan. It had held all their files and the history of all their work saving the irrelevants. And so many other memories: of banter and snarky comments, of ease and comfort, of hot Sencha tea and donuts, of bandages and antibiotic ointment… and stolen moments of love.

He forced his mind away from those images; they hurt too badly.

He ached, not just his shoulder wound which he’d never gotten any further care for. John’s suggestion that Shaw take a look at it had been forgotten and now, a week later, it was sore and probably infected. It still seeped blood, but Harold didn’t dare go to a hospital. He’d always been paranoid, now the feeling was compounded. He was nobody, had nothing. And that was the only thing that was keeping him alive. 

His ache was soul deep. He ached for their work, those simple days when they had been so busy with number after number. He ached for switching on his computer screens and using his expertise to help someone, or to ruin some big wig who had hurt an innocent person. He ached for the sound of John’s voice in his ear. 

“Oh, John… “ The whisper was dragged out of him unvoluntarily, his voice broken with pain and loss. They couldn’t meet, couldn’t expose themselves. Their new identities were too fragile, Samaritan too all seeing. 

He was so tired. He’d barely been sleeping for months, Ms. Groves’s comment about less than four hours a night had been right on target. Since parting company with Reese and Shaw after D.C. he had slept less, trying to find a way to prevent Decima from bringing Samaritan online and worrying about Grace. And since he’d gone willingly with Greer to save her -- _what a damn fool I was!_ he had slept not at all from then until the kangaroo court. In the past week, he’d caught a few winks on park benches or on the subway. 

He kept thinking he spotted John. He’d glance idly across the street and catch sight of a tall man striding with purpose, wearing a black winter coat and his heart would stop, his breath catch in his throat. But he was always wrong. Someone’s cell phone would ring or vibrate and he’d reach to tap his own ear… but there was nothing there. He'd catch a glimpse of a face in a crowd, a reflection from the window of a speeding subway car, a brush against his arm as he walked along a street… and he was wrong every time. 

Weary, he took off his glasses and rubbed at his burning eyes. At his feet, Bear whined again. Exhausted, Harold just sat, his glasses held listlessly in his hands.

Bear suddenly lunged. Gave a yelp. Without looking up, Harold gripped the leash tighter. “ _Zit_ , Bear,” he ordered. 

Bear ignored him. He barked, his tail starting to wag rapidly. 

At a loss and too dispirited to think, Harold looked up. In front of him stood a tall man wearing a gray running suit and shabby sneakers. The image was blurry, out of focus to his unaided, exhausted eyes.

“Nice dog,” a rough, very quiet voice murmured. A fine boned hand reached down to pet the dog’s head briefly.

Harold was so startled he dropped his glasses on the ground. 

The man bent to retrieve them. Harold caught sight of salt and pepper hair, mussed from the wind.

“Here you go, fella,” the dry, raspy voice said. 

Harold looked up, too desperate to believe. “Uh… th-thank you,” he managed finally.

“No problem.” The man’s fingers brushed against his as he handed over the glasses and then he was gone.

Fumbling in haste and an agony of hope, Finch struggled to put the glasses back on and to look for the disappearing figure in the crowd. 

But the man had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

Bear continued to whine and wag, listlessly now.

It took a moment for Harold to realize that along with the glasses, a balled up piece of paper had been handed to him.

Trembling, he smoothed it out and looked at it. 

Firm handwriting he would recognize anywhere. No message, no name.

Just an address. 

Harold hurriedly memorized the street and number, awkwardly getting up from the bench and heading in the opposite direction from the one the other man had taken, dropping the paper into a trash can as he passed it.


	2. Chapter 2

Harold didn’t go to the address. He worried that he would be observed by Samaritan, that he would somehow endanger John by going there. Instead, he actually went to the apartment that Ms. Groves had rented in the name of his new alias. While he knew he needed to get comfortable in that identity, he just hadn’t been ready to. He was used to creating his own personas and while he had no doubt about Root’s computer abilities, he felt he had to learn the specifics before fully immersing himself. 

Ms. Groves had thoughtfully made sure the apartment in Brooklyn was furnished and provided a computer but just powering it up had nearly given Harold a heart attack. “Only the paranoid survive,” he’d once told John, but now his paranoia had kicked into higher gear than ever before. He took the laptop with him to the nearest public library to use its wifi connection, not trusting the one in his place.

He looked into what was going on in New York, reading about the killings that both saddened and terrified him. John and Ms. Shaw had been right; they should have killed the Senator. While this would only have gained them some time, perhaps he could have protected Grace, not had to go to Greer, not been with him when Vigilance had taken them all to the kangaroo court… but then again, since Decima was behind Vigilance, he supposed that would have happened eventually anyway… and what else would have been sacrificed if John and Shaw hadn’t listened to him? Bad as they were right now, it was possible they would be even worse now if he had allowed them to commit that murder. 

As it was, things weren’t good here in the city and seemingly across the country. The police had been granted emergency powers to apprehend anyone suspected of terrorist activities and more than one possibly innocent person had been gunned down in the streets. 

Still, the main thing he should be doing was to learn who he was supposed to be now. Root had prepared an elaborate background; all he had to do was memorize it and then start to live it. The only thing he’d really checked that night when they first found the envelopes as they were closing down the library was that they wouldn’t have to leave New York. He’d been oddly glad she agreed with him that it really would be paradoxically easier to hide in the city with with the most surveillance.

It was difficult, however. Never before had his concentration been so fragmented. He could hardly think, couldn’t keep the names and dates in his head. He was so worried about John and about Ms. Shaw and Ms. Groves as well. His shoulder hurt. He couldn’t sleep. He kept going over and over all the things he’d tried after separating himself from John and Shaw, before giving in to Greer’s demands and exchanging himself for Grace. He’d tried so hard to find a weakness in Samaritan, to use what little contact he had with the Machine to support their position, but it had all been in vain. Never before had he felt like such a monumental failure.

After three days, however, all he could keep in his head was the address. Without really thinking about it, while walking Bear, he found himself looking for the street.

It turned out to be a huge warehouse that took up an entire block. As he stood before it, he wondered why he hadn’t realized in the first place what it was. He’d never been here before, but he knew this place.

It was the homeless enclave where John had stayed before they met. Where John had taken Adam Saunders to keep him safe. Where he’d heard John thank the woman who had taken care of him while he stayed there. “Who’s taking care of you now?” she had asked him. “Someone new,” had been John’s answer. Harold had felt like he was eavesdropping, more than usual, when he heard those words, John’s tone of voice. The realization that he obviously meant that he felt Harold was now taking care of him had been surprising, more moving that Harold would have expected. He wasn’t sure if John had realized he’d been listening at that time and thought perhaps he might have forgotten. Alternatively, he thought John had known perfectly well that he had Harold as an audience and was simply trying to ingratiate himself in his employer’s good graces. Since that time, Harold had come to understand that John had been quite sincere. 

Their former number, Adam Saunders, had purchased the building and allowed the homeless to stay rent free and had even made some improvements, Harold had learned. He shouldn’t be surprised that this is where John’s note had led him.

He stood there for some moments, lost in memory. How simple their lives had been back then, just the two of them with the reluctant help from Detectives Carter and Fusco, trying to save all the numbers themselves, learning to know each other, tentatively growing more and more comfortable with each other. 

Now, exhausted and slightly dizzy, Harold felt twenty years older than he’d been then. And so much more lonely.

“You goin’ in or what, Pops?” a grizzled young man asked as he shouldered past Harold to push the double doors open. 

“Hmmm… going in, I suppose,” he answered, following the vagrant. 

He walked through the doors. The light inside was subdued, which he supposed was a good thing, as the people inside probably preferred it that way. He did too, it seemed. For the first time in days he felt like he was truly blending in. Nobody was looking at him, casting inquisitive glances his way. He wasn’t dressed to stand out and had traded his bespoke suits for a conservative pair of jeans and green plaid shirt, covered with an old trench coat against the cold evening air. Wandering through the first floor, he noted small groups of people standing around together, and others seated alone. There were a few tents that had been pitched which apparently afforded some privacy to their owners. Other tenants had erected makeshift walls of boxes and one enterprising individual had constructed an enclosure out of beer and soda cans. 

“Lookin’ for a place to spend the night?” 

Harold glanced up at the woman who had approached him. Her long hair was both uncombed and unwashed and she could have been any age between thirty and sixty. She was dressed in numerous layers of clothing that hadn’t seen a washing machine in months and she’d clasped his forearm with a thin hand covered in fingerless gloves that were threadbare. 

“I’m Joan,” she said, smiling at him. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

Harold managed a smile in return, instantly realizing who she was. Yet he held himself back from asking about John, uncertain. If they made themselves known to anyone from their pasts… 

“No. I just got here,” he said. “Would it be okay if I… found a place for the night?”

“Sure, honey. There’s plenty of room. Five whole floors, no rent to pay, just like the great outdoors – only warmer.” 

“Thanks.” Next to him, Bear whined. “It’s okay if I have my dog with me?”

“Sure. He won’t be the only one. People don’t mind.” She looked down at the dog. “He doesn’t attack or anything, does he?”

Harold smothered a smile. “Only if I order him to. I’ll… uh… look around for some space.”

“Sure thing. And if there’s anything you need, just come lookin’ for me and I’ll fix you right up.” She turned back to the grocery cart she had been pushing along and headed back toward the center of the large space.

Harold drew in a deep breath, still unsure what to do. He turned for the stairs he’d passed on the way in and was just contemplating climbing them, wondering if John was even there. Suddenly, Bear looked behind him and started lunging at the leash and wagging his tail.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder. “Guess I can’t sneak up on you any more.” The welcome voice was warm with amusement. John leaned down and ruffled Bear’s fur, whispering a brief order that calmed the dog.

Harold started to turn, but John squeezed his shoulder. “No. Let’s just go up the stairs. We’re just acquaintances.” Harold nodded and the three of them entered the stairwell.

They maintained silence as the climbed, finally emerging on the top floor of the building. Harold was breathing heavily from the exertion, his shoulder wound having weakened him. As they emerged into the open space, and seeing no one around, John took his brief case from him and solicitously put his hand against the small of his back to guide him.

“There’s an old office in the back corner,” John said. “We can… talk there.”

Although the area was currently empty, Harold saw signs that even this floor of the warehouse was inhabited. Rolled up sleeping bags, duffels, piles of belongings were scattered around but at the moment, nobody seemed home. John steered him through the mounds and they crossed the expanse wordlessly, Harold’s heart beating fast just to be in John’s presence again. Bear’s tail never stopped wagging.

When they finally reached the far corner, John took his hand away from Harold’s back and opened the door, turning to glance back as Harold entered as if to make sure they remained unobserved. 

Harold took in the room with a glance. There was an old metal desk with an ancient gooseneck lamp against one wall, some dilapidated file cabinets and a rickety looking vinyl couch, not so wide and long as the leather one in the library but serviceable nonetheless. There was a pillow at one end and a pile of blankets; it was obvious John had been sleeping here. 

He turned, about to ask why John wasn’t at the place Ms. Groves had found for him.

And was wrapped up in John’s strong arms that shook as they pulled him close and then still closer.

“Harold, Harold…Harold,” the beloved voice rasped out. It wasn’t just his arms, but John’s whole body that was trembling, Harold realized as he returned the embrace, letting Bear’s leash go so that he could wrap John tighter. They’d held each other many times before, clung to each other after danger or separation but this was different. Neither had known when or even if they might see each other again. Harold felt relief and solace and somehow _right_ again after their abrupt departure from the library, safe for the first time since they’d parted.

The quality of John’s clasp, however, seemed more desperate. As Reese was seldom given to emotional displays, Harold was concerned. 

“I thought you’d never come.” John’s mouth brushed his ear, whispering even though they were alone, his cheek rough with days of stubble. 

“I was worried,” Harold began. He drew back, taking in John’s ravaged face, his haunted, red-rimmed eyes that looked as though they’d forgotten the meaning of sleep. “John? John…” He reached up to cup his cheeks. “I’m here. I’m here.”

John groaned, taking Harold’s hands in his own, closing his eyes and pressing kisses against Harold’s fingers, his shoulders shaking. 

“I’m here,” Harold repeated, more gently this time. “I’m okay.” When John didn’t speak, Harold withdrew one of his hands and gently ran it through John’s mussed hair. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

“Of course.” John immediately led him to the broken down couch, helping him off with his coat and sitting beside him as soon as he’d draped it across the desk, as if he didn’t want to spare a second, or move that far away, to hang it from the hook on the back of the door. 

There was so much to say, questions and answers that needed to be voiced, hopes and fears they could never put into words, but they all faded as they looked into each others’ eyes. Harold found himself drowning in the depths of John’s devoted gaze. John looked as if he’d been starving just for the sight of him. And Harold knew he had experienced a similar hunger. It occurred to him just how little they’d seen of each other in the weeks before Samaritan came online, which made their complete separation even harder in retrospect. Much as they needed to, Harold didn’t want to talk now.

It was clear John didn’t want to either. In the next instant, they were kissing, tasting each other, clutching close, mouths open and desperate, tongues meeting and thrusting, both men groaning in relief and need. Harold had been on the receiving end of John’s devouring hunger for him more than once, but now he reveled in it as never before, relishing the passion and reverence in John’s touch, in his unrestrained kisses, seeking to give back as best he could, wanting to satisfy John’s need, feeling his own come restlessly alive within him. 

He found himself grasping the hem of John’s sweatshirt, lifting, and felt John pull away enough to yank it off over his head, coming back into his arms as soon as he was free of it. John’s fingers were eager, opening the buttons on Harold's shirt as efficiently as he stripped down a weapon, and Harold was glad, needed them to be skin to skin, needing John’s warmth against him. He’d been alone and cold for too long.

When his shirt was open, John reached to tug it off Harold’s shoulders, and as he moved to help, his shoulder chose that moment to remind him of his wound, sending a lancing pain through his chest and down his arm. Harold groaned aloud.

John went instantly into protective mode, all traces of passion wiped from his face, now looking worried and repentant. “Harold?” he asked, “let me see…”

“It’s all right,” he tried to protest, not really wanting to stop kissing John, despite the pain having interrupted his growing arousal. 

John was all solicitous concern, taking a good look at the wound which appeared little different from when it had happened, evidence of Harold's neglect, then getting up to rifle through the drawers of the file cabinet for supplies. He came back to the couch with bandages and antiseptic and set about cleaning the area, applying a new bandage and finally pressing a hand to Harold’s forehead.

“You’re feverish,” he murmured. “You need antibiotics.” He got up again, returning to the cabinet and fished out a pharmacy bottle. “I picked these up a couple days ago. They’ll help.” He located a gallon jug of water on the desk, filled a paper cup with some and brought it and the pills over. 

“John…” Harold said, bemused at the reversal in their roles. How many times had he taken care of John’s wounds? Did John feel this cherished when Harold bandaged and worried about him? Perhaps the reason he hadn't gotten around to seeking medical care hadn't been his fear of discovery by Samaritan but because he just wanted John to do it. “I know some jackass told you you needed a purpose but you never told him the healing took this long.” 

John met his eyes then and Harold was relieved to see the light in them coming back and that slight smirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “I forgot,” was all he said, offering the cup and pills.

Harold took them, swallowing two of the large capsules that wanted to stick as he got them down. 

“Do you need anything for pain?” John asked, his voice serious again. 

Harold shook his head. “I’ve got some in my case. I’m not a complete idiot, John.”

“I never said you were a _complete_ idiot.”

“Just enough to stop something we both seemed to be enjoying,” he said ruefully. He reached out to clasp John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about that.”

John turned to look at him, his gaze as heated and intense as before. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for,” he said, his voice deep and admonishing.

“Yes, I do, John. For so many things.” He felt it all so deeply… the Machine… his stubborn morality… his certainty that he could do something to stop Decima… his refusal to allow John to do things his way… 

John took Harold’s face between both his hands, clearly understanding all Harold felt. “You did what you’ve always done. The best anyone could ever do, to protect your country, to give me a job, to help those who couldn’t help themselves, to save lives.” When he bent to Harold’s lips this time, John was as gentle and reverent as he’d been starving before. 

They kissed gently, softly, for long, long moments, just glad to be close to each other again, to relearn the taste and textures of each others’ mouths and, when they eased down upon the creaking couch, the taste and textures of each others’ bodies. 

They moved together, the heat of passion banked by the depth of their losses, their love wounded yet not so gravely that they could not feel. Ms. Groves had mentioned hope, Harold remembered as John moved over him, hands and lips and thighs touching, gripping. He hadn’t known what she meant then, still wasn’t sure now. But he was beginning to feel it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes us into Reese's point of view.

He kept his eyes on Harold as long as he could, hating to turn away, never wanting to do it, never intending to ever let the man out of his sight again. Not after having gotten him back from Greer, not after having seen him wounded, not after the promises he’d made…

But it wasn’t to be. They couldn’t stay at the library, couldn’t return to their comfortable existence – how laughable that they’d ever talked about how they would probably end up dead, how despite that knowledge had come to feel safe, to feel as though they were doing some good, how they’d pretended they could go on that way forever, holding onto the dream of a future where they would always be together.

Finally, he couldn’t keep walking sideways on the crowded streets, couldn’t keep Harold in sight. He turned, eyes going slightly unfocused even as he tried to move normally, act as if they were only parting for a few hours. His stomach was clenched, his shoulders stiff, his duffel of guns heavy in his grip. He heard Bear bark once and nearly turned back, but he knew Harold wouldn’t want him to, so he did what he always had to do, he followed orders, did what he was told, did things the way Harold wanted him to. 

He kept on trudging in the direction he’d been headed, not even noting the streets, the neighborhood, having no destination in mind. Root had given him a new name and a new residence and a new job… and he hated it all, hated the idea that he would become someone she had created, when he’d only wanted to be Harold’s creation, live in the home Harold had given him, used the names Harold had vetted. 

Hours passed but he wouldn’t give in to the fatigue he felt. He kept it distant, like the pain in his heart and in his head. His chest was tight, burning with feelings he couldn’t crush down, anger he couldn’t vent, regrets he couldn’t suppress. 

He should have killed the congressman despite Finch’s objections. He should never have let Finch go with Greer in exchange for Grace. He should never have let Finch out of his sight. 

He had failed.

He knew Harold would tell him he hadn’t, but that was little consolation. His job was to help with the numbers – his duty was to keep Harold alive and well. Now he could do neither. 

After a long time, he found himself at the warehouse where he’d stayed in the weeks before Finch had found him and offered him the job. Lonely, dispirited, he pushed open the door and went inside. 

*****  
Though he eventually went to the address in the envelope, he kept his guns hidden in the warehouse. He went about the motions of adopting his new identity, of hiding in plain sight from Samaritan. He decided it was best to follow the plan, as much as he could. Finch would do something – sooner or later they would be back on track. All he had to do was stay alive until then.

His mind was in turmoil. Worry, regret and loss followed him everywhere. He’d been alone a lot, over the years, and had always naturally kept his thoughts and feelings to himself. But lately, not having anyone to talk to and no way to process what had happened, seemed like more of a hardship. 

He had a job and he worked it mindlessly, at times thankful that it required none of his training or education – and other times so bored he thought he’d lose what was left of his mind. After the day was over, he walked the city, unable and unwilling to return to the places he and Harold had frequented, places where memories were sweet and life had been good. He hoped, probably in vain, that their paths would cross. 

Locked in his pain, he was still vaguely aware that the world was changing. He normally didn’t pay close attention to the news, unless his work required him to. Now, he was drawn to the reports of the new surveillance system that the public seemed so happy to embrace because of the recent terrorist attack in the wake of the black out that had cost the lives of so many cops and firemen and ordinary citizens that Vigilance had kidnapped. Everybody seemed perfectly happy to have their emails and phone calls recorded now; if anyone was objecting, they weren’t saying so. At least not out in the open.

He’d finished another day’s work and though he was physically tired, his mind refused to relax. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he headed out into the streets, no destination in mind. When he found himself in front of a bar, he shrugged and went inside.

He intended to just sit and drink for a couple of hours. There were plenty of seats at the long wooden bar, so he slipped onto a stool. When the bartender approached him, he just said, “whiskey,” without even looking up. When the filled shot glass appeared in front of him, he downed it, welcoming the burn as it went down, remembering the oblivion he’d sought and found in the wake of Jessica’s death. “Keep them coming,” he told the bartender, pulling a twenty from his wallet. 

An hour later, he wasn’t quite drunk yet, not having ever really lost his tolerance, but he was beginning to feel numb and that was almost as good. He knew the bar had filled up since his arrival, that music was playing, mingling with voices, but he kept it all tuned down, paying no real attention, knowing that he would never fit into the world the bar’s patrons inhabited. 

Still, instead of calming him, the noise seemed to amp up his stress. He tried deep breathing, tried drinking another shot, but it didn’t work.

“Hey, Smitty,” a voice at his right elbow called out. “Turn that tv up, will ya?”

The bartender responded, reaching for a remote and suddenly the television was competing with the music. A reporter’s voice was droning and without really wanting to, John listened.

“Nine more terrorists were arrested in New York this afternoon,” the newscaster said. “All were discovered through the new Samaritan surveillance system. Thanks to the efforts of Senator Ross Garrison who’s authored a new patriot bill, these terrorists will receive a speedy trial. Later tonight, we’ll be presenting an in depth look at the laws that will be changing should Senator Garrison’s bill pass, as it is expected to.”

“That’s right!” the man who’d asked to have the tv turned up. “We got nine more today and I’m betting there’s plenty more where they came from.”

“I hear ya, Fred,” a second man chimed in, “but what’s this bull shit about a trial? What’s wrong with shootin’ them down in the street the way they did those Vigilance creeps?”

“The way I heard it,” said Smitty, “they were running when the police tried to arrest them.”

“Proves they were guilty,” the second man went on. “If this new computer thing says they’re terrorists, they gotta be. No need for a damn trial. Why waste the tax payers’ money on that shit? Shoot ‘em in the head, I say.”

“Now wait, Bill,” Smitty responded, “what if somebody you know is arrested on these new terrorist charges? You think they wouldn’t deserve their day in court? That’s the law of the land.”

“Anybody betrays this country, I don’t wanta know ‘em,” Bill said in disgust. “They’re out there, using facebook and twitter and all that sayin’ shit against this country and they deserve to die.”

Reese turned to look at the man. “What did you say?” he asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

“I say if they talk against the country, they’re probably planning something. Like those jerks in Boston last year at the marathon – they’re probably building bombs and shit.”

Reese closed his eyes, thinking of how he and Kara had been ordered to kill people who had simply said things against their nation, how they’d followed those orders with no proof. But he had learned to question those orders – if ordinary citizens were going to start feeling that way… 

“I thought we still had freedom of speech in this country,” he offered, his voice still mild. 

“Maybe it’s time to revoke that,” Fred spoke up. “I don’t say shoot anybody, but they should be arrested at least.”

Before John could say anything else, another body shoved itself in between him and Fred, fist first. The newcomer clocked Fred right in the jaw, knocking him off the stool. Bill let out a harsh growl and reached for the man who’d punched his friend and the next thing John knew, he was in the middle of it. 

He didn’t hold back and it was easy, despite the amount he’d had to drink, to get the upper hand. He found himself on top of the guy called Fred, knees bracing the guy’s shoulders as he punched him in the jaw over and over and over again. Maybe he’d kill him. Maybe he didn’t care. The guy didn’t deserve it, but when had that stopped John before? Oh yeah, when Finch had told him not to kill the congressman. This guy worked fine as a stand in and John was glad to have an outlet for his rage at last.

All his anger and pain was in those blows – there was nothing else he could see or hear and he couldn’t think at all. Then, a harsh ringing sound seemed to come from far away, and hands were at his shoulders, fists were hitting him from behind and then something hard and heavy that he fleetingly recognized as a bar stool hit him over the head and the lights were gone.

He woke up to bright lights and the sounds and smells of a hospital. “Shit,” he muttered.

A woman’s face came into view. “Oh, you’re awake. I’ll get the doctor.” 

John tried to rub at his face, realized he was cuffed to the exam table. He raised his head, feeling dizzy and nauseous as he did so. 

“Oh, God!” A soft female voice came right at his side and a warm hand clutched at his bicep. “John?”

Through the haze, he squinted up. _No…_ It was Megan Tillman. 

“John, what happened?” she whispered. “You’re under arrest. What…?”

“You don’t know me. You never saw me before,” he hissed. His head was pounding but he knew he had to get out of there before he was identified. Surely Samaritan would see through the I.D. in his pocket and if he were taken into custody… 

“Of course I know who you are,” Megan whispered back. She placed her hand over his forehead and John winced at the gentleness she offered. “What can I do to help you?”

“Don’t… get involved…” he croaked. She’d be killed too, just for recognizing him. He tried to sit up. 

“No – wait – “ She caught at his shoulder and pressed him back down. He saw her glancing around worriedly. “The cops are way over by the wall,” she whispered, leaning over him again. “If I tell them you need an x-ray, they’ll have to uncuff you.”

He wanted to tell her not to bother, but before he could make his voice work, she was gone from his side and he could hear her speaking in authoritative tones, probably making good on her offer.

“The man almost certainly has a serious concussion. I doubt he can even stand up much less try to escape, officer.”

“You’d better be right, Doctor,” a young man in uniform said as he bent to unlock the handcuffs at John’s wrist. "I guess he can't do much harm, the shape he's in. I think the other guys from the bar fight are more likely to try to give me trouble than he is anyway. I just heard from the other doctor that the guy this one was beating on is going to be okay, so it's not like we're looking at murder charges."

Then she was pushing the gurney he was on out of the curtained area and into the hallway. John put a hand up over his eyes to shield them from the overhead lights. The brightness and movement made him feel sick. Megan was right; he probably was concussed. Wouldn’t be the first time.

In moments, they were behind closed doors. Megan rushed to his side. “You need medical attention but I think you need to get out of here even more. Is that right?”

“You shouldn’t get involved,” he repeated, his voice no more than a croak.

“Too late. You helped me once, a long time ago. At least I can return the favor now.”

She stepped away and began rustling through drawers. When she came back, she thrust a bag into his hands. “If you can get to your feet, you need to go. Now.”

He tried and with her hand at his shoulder, he managed to sit up on the side of the gurney. He looked at her – she looked different. She was no longer the tormented soul he’d met back in the early days. She looked pretty, competent and at ease. And determined to help him.

He shouldn’t let her. But somehow, he knew that if he let them take him to jail, he’d not survive the night. He gave her a look. “Whatever happens, don’t let them know you recognized me. You never saw me before. You don’t know my name. And it’s not John. Not now.”

“Of course. Okay. Can you stand?”

He got to his feet, his strength of will coming to his aid as it had so many times in the past. He didn’t let on that he felt about to throw up.

“Don’t let yourself sleep for too long. Take the meds in there and use the bandages if you have any other injuries. Go out this door and turn right. At the end of the corridor is an exit. Use it. I can probably give you at least a half an hour's head start and I'll make sure they look in the hospital for you first."

He reached for her, awkwardly grasping her shoulder. “Bad times are coming, Megan,” he told her. “Whatever you do, don’t use social media, don’t make anyone aware of you. People… people are going to start dying.”

She paled but nodded. “Go.” With a shove, she sent him on his way.

 

*****


	4. Chapter 4

_I hurt myself today_  
 _To see if I still feel_  
 _I focus on the pain_  
 _The only thing that's real_

John kept to the shadows, moving between cars and cameras, hardly feeling the cold of the night air. His head throbbed but he could deal with the pain. He always had, he always would. It convinced him he was still alive, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. 

He was alone in a new world. Alone as he had never been before. 

_And no one’s coming to save me…_ he thought desolately.

He propped himself in a doorway in a dim alley that smelled of garbage and urine. He looked at his watch, somewhat surprised to find it wasn’t broken. Setting its alarm for an hour, he cautiously leaned back and closed his eyes.

_”I’m close, John. Just get to the ground floor.”_

_“No, don’t even risk it.”_

_Yet when he staggered into the open air of the parking structure, he hadn’t really been surprised to see the Town car pull up. He’d thought he was going to pass out, that Carter – or even Mark – would find him bleeding out on the pavement. But he drew on his last bit of strength to head toward the car, watching as Finch emerged from the driver’s side door._

_John himself didn’t know how he was still standing. His thigh was burning; he could feel the bullet that was in him. His gut was worse, cramping, bleeding freely. His vision was blurring, focus narrowing in on that tuft of hair above Finch’s worried eyes._

_Harold probably had never seen that much blood, John thought vacantly, imagining his fastidious employer turning away from him at the sight. Yet miraculously, Finch started toward him, meeting him at the side of the car, wrapping a surprisingly strong arm around John’s trembling body, bracing him. There for him._

_A gasp from behind stopped both of them. Too weak to turn, John was aware of Harold looking over his shoulder._

_“You?” Carter’s voice, incredulous._

_That’s right, John remembered sluggishly. She’d met Finch, thinking he was a witness…_

_Would she use her gun now, shoot Harold? Pull out her phone and call Mark? Arrest both of them? He knew he couldn’t do anything to protect Finch physically, but at least his body made for something of a shield._

_Faced with the detective who’d betrayed John, Harold didn’t let go. If anything, his grip on John tightened, as if to show her he was _his_ , that she couldn’t have the man in the suit. Not now. _

_John heard her holster her side arm, felt her take his weakening body from Finch’s arms, but only to guide him into the back seat. He all but fell in, but managed to remain upright, wanting to be able to look her in the eye. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t convey that he realized Mark had manipulated her, but he figured she already knew that when she slammed the door shut and shouted “go” to Finch._

_And go he did. John felt like he was on a roller coaster as Harold stepped on the gas, navigating the city streets like he was Steve McQueen in “Bullitt.”_

_“Where’d you learn… to drive like this?” he gasped out._

_“What, John?” Harold sounded distracted._

_“Never mind.” John found he was sliding sideways on the seat._

_Some undefined time later, John registered that the car had stopped. That Harold was looking in at him through the open back door. And not just Harold. Hands were reaching for him._

_Disoriented, John tried to fight them off, a low growl coming from his lips._

_“No, no,” he heard Harold say. “It’s all right. Let me.”_

_Then Harold was leaning closer to him, damp fingers clasping John’s wrist. “You can let go of your gun now, John. You’re safe. These men are going to take you into the clinic.”_

_It was only the soothing cadence of Harold’s voice that made him relent. He let his fingers go lax and was bemused to realize that Harold was actually taking the gun from his hand. He’d have to remind him of that… sometime._

_“Where…?” he managed instead, eyes wildly looking around as they pulled him from the car and onto a gurney. It was dark. He could see the stars. They must be out of the city._

_“A clinic I own,” Harold responded, his voice unruffled, calming. “You’re safe here. They’ll take care of you.”_

John’s watch alarm went off. He startled, jerking upright and looking around to see where he was. He could hear bottles clanking and rolling further down the alley and muffled voices. He needed to move. He climbed to his feet, needing the support of the wall as he got up. Breathing hard from the exertion, he moved as soon as he felt steady. 

He kept close to the buildings, hugging the bricks as he stumbled along, trying to make himself look inconspicuous. The folly of that wasn’t lost on him. Nobody was invisible now. Anyone was a target. Samaritan was everywhere.

Where was Harold? Was he all right? Bear could protect him from most predators but not from Greer.

His foot found a slippery patch on the sidewalk and John stumbled, going to his knees on the pavement. His eyes were unfocused, his head spinning. 

He was back in the bar, beating that guy… who was he? Why? In John’s mind, the man’s face blurred, was replaced with Greer’s.

Should have killed him. Should have killed them all…

_And you could have it all_  
 _My empire of dirt_  
 _I will let you down_  
 _I will make you hurt._

“You didn’t want me to kill anymore, Harold,” he murmured to the darkness. “I tried to stop. But I shouldn’t have. Should have killed the congressman. Should have killed Greer. He… took… everything…”

Images of a car in flames and men screaming in pain came to him. How he’d held up the picture of Simmons, demanded information. Harold hadn’t liked him doing those things, so when he’d come home, he’d resolved to do things Harold’s way.

“You were wrong, Harold,” John grated out. “I should have burned the world up to save you…”

Images of Harold alone, hurt, suffering came to him and he doubled over, sobbing, retching, damning himself.

 

“Hey, buddy, you all right there?”

John drew tighter into himself, keeping his head down. 

“Can I… call somebody or somethin’? Call you a cab maybe?”

He tried to pull himself together, give some sign that he wasn’t in need of assistance. This stranger couldn’t help him. 

“Uh…” He drew a deep breath, coughed, swallowed. Maybe he should pretend he was just drunk. “’M’okay,” he slurred, canting his body sideways, forcing a soft chuckle. “Jus… just drank a little too mush…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I just live… around the block.”

“Let me give you a hand,” the stranger persisted, his voice sounding as if were coming from very far away. John felt the touch on his shoulder and jerked back, both fists coming up.

“Watch it, now. I could run you in.” A flashlight beam made him squint, put him on the defensive. He didn't need a benefactor, least of all a cop.

“Get lost,” he snarled, lurching to his feet and starting to scramble away.

“Wait!” The flashlight fell to the ground. A strong hand grabbed at his sleeve. “John!”

Stricken, John focused on the man talking to him. 

“Lionel?” 

Just as the familiar face of the detective swam into focus, John’s overtaxed body and mind gave out. He collapsed.

 

_I wear this crown of thorns_  
 _Upon my liar's chair_  
 _Full of broken thoughts_  
 _I cannot repair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent this afternoon watching some YouTube clips from first season, the "Human Moments" clips of many of the moments between John and Harold, the ending of "Number Crunch" and, from season 3, the beginning montage of "The Devil's Share." They got me in touch with early Reese and his feelings for Harold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up at Fusco's apartment. This chapter will bring us back around to where we started.

John woke up slowly, trying to figure out where he was. He remembered only bits and pieces: anger, pain, hitting, handcuffs… and no Harold. He had been low before, feeling like he couldn’t go on, but then Harold had found him and given him a new purpose. This time, John had fallen even lower, felt even more useless, more like giving up. If he could, he’d just lie here and never open his eyes or move again. It all seemed like too much trouble.

He tried not even thinking or feeling, but apparently his survival instincts weren't as intent on giving up as he was.

Gradually, he began to sense things about his surroundings, himself. He was in a warm room, on someone’s couch, with his shoes off and a blanket over him. He lifted his head, groaning in pain at the movement.

“Easy,” a gruff, familiar voice said. Though it was soft, it still made his head pound.

“Fusco?” he managed, his mouth feeling like it was full of cotton.

“The one and only.” A glass of water appeared in his line of sight. “Here. Drink this. And take these too.”

John managed to shift up enough to be able to take the pills out of Fusco’s hand and to swallow them down with the water. It felt amazing to his parched throat. He realized that it said something about his state of mind – or lack thereof – that he didn’t decline or even question the pills. “What… time is it?” he asked.

“Morning.” 

The non-specific answer suited John just fine. “How’d I get here?” God, he hated feeling this much confusion. And showing it in front of Fusco wasn’t good either. But he was too dispirited to really care. Everything else had gone to hell, why shouldn’t his relationship with the detective go south too?

“I found you just about passed out in the proverbial gutter,” Fusco told him. “You don’t remember?”

“It wasn’t one of my better nights.”

“That’s probably an understatement. You know, I’ve been wondering where you guys have been the last few days.”

John closed his eyes, not wanting to talk about that. Even if he did, he didn’t know what it would be safe to tell the other man. “We don’t know ourselves,” he finally murmured. 

He could hear Fusco sipping from the coffee mug he’d been holding. The man was prudent enough not to reply.

“Everything’s hit the fan,” John said at last. “We had to… go off the grid.”

“I thought you were off it already.”

“Further off.” John lay back, resting his arm over his eyes. “You know all these killings? The same people are looking for us.”

“Shit.” Fusco was silent a moment. “What about Glasses? Where is he?”

John would rather cut his heart out than answer, but he didn’t see much point in avoiding the question. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Shit.”

“Pretty much.” He tried to sit up again. His head felt awful and he was having some trouble focusing his eyes. He probably shouldn’t have been asleep for as long as he must have been. He wondered how his pupils looked but asking Fusco to check them out would just be too weird. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall to your right.” Fusco pointed. He watched closely but didn’t reach to lend John a hand as he got unsteadily to his feet. John appreciated the favor.

He managed to get to the bathroom without passing out, which he figured was a good sign. He used the latrine, then found a washcloth and wet it under the cold water and wiped it over his face. In the mirror, it looked like his pupils were equal at least. He tried not to pay too much attention to the rest of his appearance. The bruise over his left cheekbone looked pretty dark but the cut on his lip wasn’t too bad.

He was walking a little better when he got back to the living room. “Lionel,” he asked, “how’d you find me?” John wasn’t even sure himself where he’d been last night.

“It was weird,” Fusco said, giving him a funny look. “I got a text message.”

“What?” A little voice in the back of John’s mind wanted to ask from who, but he already thought he might know the answer.

“An anonymous text,” Fusco went on. “Just the address. I had a funny feeling about it, not having heard from you, so I figured I’d better go check it out.”

“Oh.” John didn’t really know what to say about that. Realizing the Machine must have sent Lionel to help him was a bit of a shock to begin with, but he knew he couldn’t explain. “Thanks,” he offered, belatedly.

“No problem.” Lionel shrugged. “What else did I have to do at four a.m. than to drive half way to Brooklyn?”

John gave a non-committal grunt.

“You want some coffee?”

“Sure.” 

While Lionel got up and headed for the kitchen, John leaned back and closed his eyes. He was starting to feel again, that bottomless emptiness inside, the fear for Harold’s safety, the regrets. The damned quiet… when he had grown so used to Finch’s voice in his ear… that was the worst. So many times, he had asked, “are you there, Harold?” and the answer had come, swift and certain, “always.” And now there was only silence.

“Here you go.” Fusco set a mug with “Coney Island” in faded red lettering on it in front of John on the coffee table. “Black okay? I might have some powdered creamer if you need it.”

“Black’s fine.” John picked it up and took a cautious sip. He’d been braced for it to be too hot, but it was actually just right, so he took a deeper swallow. It was good, strong, what he needed for clearing his head. 

How long had it been since a friend had brought him a cup of coffee? Had he even expected that to happen to him again? Maybe the world wasn’t so different after all. 

Not only had Fusco brought him coffee, he’d come to find him based only on an anonymous text message, picked him up and brought him to his own place where he’d let John sleep on his couch. Simple things, but they touched John deeply. Unable to speak, he sipped his coffee.

“So you don’t know where Mr. Finch is,” Lionel mused after they had let the silence stretch out. “Or the others?”

Miserable, John shook his head. “We had to split up. Cut off contact with each other.”

“Damn.” Lionel rubbed his free hand through his curls. “Anything I can do?”

“No. It could be dangerous for you if you help us. I shouldn’t even be here.” John realized that it might be possible for Samaritan to recognize him if he were to be seen in Fusco’s presence, or it could put that together with him not showing up at his job this morning. He put his empty mug on the table and got to his feet.

“Hold on.” Fusco leaned forward and using one hand, pushed him back onto the couch. “You’re in no shape to go wandering around.” Under normal circumstances, that would have been impossible. John refused to admit he wasn’t up to full strength. 

“I’ve got to go,” John insisted. Maybe he wasn’t up to shoving back at Fusco, but he could still produce a good glare when he needed to.

“Look, I know you weren’t just drunk last night.” The look made no impression on Fusco and he kept his hand tight on John’s wrist. “It’s obvious you were in a fight and ended up in a hospital. You had those pills in your pocket along with a pack of bandages and your hands look like they should be wearing them From the look of your pupils, I’d say you had a pretty good concussion too. You can’t just go wandering around out there. Stay here. Take a shower. Eat something. You’re safe here.”

John shook his head. “Safe…? No place is safe.”

Lionel was giving him a look of consternation. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when a muffled buzzing started up. Sighing, he pulled his phone from his pants pocket and looked at the screen.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, handing the phone to John. “Look.”

There was a text message, from an unknown caller. “Camera across from residence is out of order. John can stay.”

“Now that’s just fuckin’ creepy,” Fusco said after John had read it.

John couldn’t help but agree. 

“I know,” Fusco said after continuing to look at the text for a moment. “It’s from her, isn’t it? Crazytownbananapants.” He gave a shudder. “That woman is nutso.”

“She is.” John figured it would be best to let Fusco believe that Root had sent the message – and for all he knew, maybe she had, but he was sure that the information itself had come from the Machine. 

Still, if it was sending Fusco messages about him, one thing was certain – the Machine was still out there, still functioning. It wasn’t gone, hadn’t left them totally on their own. He couldn’t be sure, but for the moment he felt safe enough to take Fusco up on his offer of a shower and some rest. 

“Guess I will stay for awhile then,” he said.

“Okay. But I gotta get to the precinct,” Fusco said, shrugging off the weirdness as he so often did when dealing with John and the others. “There’s clean towels in the bathroom closet. Eggs in the fridge. Bread for toast… make yourself at home.” He nodded toward a phone on the bookshelf next to the couch. “If you need anything, call me on that land line.”

John nodded. 

“And listen,” Fusco added, “you’re _gonna_ find him. He’ll be okay.” 

The certainty in Fusco’s voice made John feel better than he had in days. “Thanks, Lionel. You’re right. I will.” 

 

Six hours later, John was feeling more rested but he was still worried about Harold and had no way to even start looking for him. He’d showered and changed into some gray sweats he’d found in Fusco’s closet, noting absently that they fit him. Someday he might ask Lionel about how they’d come to be there but for now, he decided not to even wonder. 

He was just thinking about getting ready to leave the apartment, wanting to be gone when Fusco got home from work, when his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the message.

It wasn’t a text. Just a picture. His heart lurched when he recognized Harold. He was sitting on a bench near where they used to walk Bear in Central Park. He looked pale, shell-shocked, lonely. Bear sat at his feet, ears protectively alert. 

John pulled on his jacket and moved toward the door of Fusco’s apartment. He knew where he was going. What he would do when he got there, he wasn’t yet sure, but he’d figure it out.

Maybe he’d let Finch know that they could meet safely at Joan’s place, the homeless enclave. He’d been safe there before. It was as good a place as any for both of them to be safe now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been following this fic and your comments and kudos!
> 
> There will be at least one more chapter to come.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, leading us back to the room at the warehouse where John has been living. Just in time for the season premiere tonight.

John approached the park cautiously, alertly aware of the cameras which were always watching. At last he could see Finch, sitting on the bench with Bear at his feet.

He looked drawn and tired to John’s eyes. He wanted to immediately rush to him, to take him in his arms, but he knew that was impossible. He stood there, just watching him for half an hour, letting his senses fill up with the sight of him, making sure that no one seemed aware of Harold’s presence there. That things were safe.

Finally, he approached him. Harold wasn’t looking around, didn’t seem to notice him. As John drew near, Harold took off his glasses and began to rub at his eyes. When he finished, he didn’t put them back on but instead sat there with them hanging from his hand.

Bear, of course, noticed John right away. He sat up, whining, tail wagging, and barked. John heard Harold order him to be still, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He came abreast of him and paused, waiting.

Harold looked up and John noticed that he seemed to be having trouble focusing on him. He might not even recognize him, John realized.

“Nice dog,” he offered, as if he was just a stranger noticing someone else’s dog in the park. He leaned down to pat Bear’s head. The fur felt good under his hand. He’d missed Bear a lot too.

The glasses dropped from Harold’s fingers. 

Smothering the smile that was threatening to break free, John bent to pick them up. He handed them back to Harold, along with the small scrap of paper he’d already had in his hand.

“Here you go, fella,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Th-thank you,” Harold stammered.

“No problem,” John answered. He allowed his fingers to linger on Harold’s cool ones briefly as he returned the glasses to him, slipping the paper into his hand as well. 

Then, he began walking again, striding away quickly, aware of Bear’s confusion, and Harold’s too, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t take the chance. He might have gone too far already.

He went directly to the warehouse, hoping that Harold would come as soon as he read the address. But that didn’t happen. Three days and nights went by before he saw him again, Harold obviously being cautious. But when he finally caught sight of him standing with Bear in the lobby of the warehouse, looking confused and, even wearing non-descript clothes and carrying a battered brief case, out of place there.

John moved to him, his heart pounding, his throat tight. It was all he could do to stay in character, acting as if he really didn’t know and love this man.

 

After they made love on the rickety couch in John’s room, they dozed together, comfortable in each others arms. John woke gradually, aware of Bear’s nose pushed against his face, the dog’s hot breath snuffling against him. When he opened his eyes, Bear whined and licked him. 

“Good boy,” he sighed, petting the big head. Bear yipped like a puppy, obviously glad to have wakened John. 

“Wh-what…?” Harold’s voice was muffled, confused. 

“Bear’s tired of waiting for us to wake up,” John explained, disentangling himself to sit up next to Harold.

“Oh.” He grimaced, stretched a little and looked around for his glasses.

“Here they are.” John leaned down to pick them up from the floor where he’d placed them earlier. He handed them over, his fingers grazing Harold’s as he did so, reminded of the day he’d found him in the park and Harold had dropped them in surprise.

As if his thoughts had returned to that moment as well, Harold gave him a look when he put the glasses on. “How did you find me, John?”

“I think it was the Machine,” he answered. “I got a text.”

“The Machine texted you?”

“It was just a picture. Of you sitting there on the bench with Bear. It was as if the Machine wanted me to know where you were.”

“Oh, my.” Harold looked surprised, bemused and not a little worried. 

“I think the Machine sent a couple messages to Fusco too,” John went on. 

“What?” Harold looked incredulous.

“Oh, he doesn’t know about the Machine. He thinks it was Root that messaged him,” John quickly reassured. “I got myself into a little trouble a couple nights ago. Fusco found me and took me to his place to rest up. I found out he’d gotten a text with my location. Then later, the next morning when I was worrying about even being there, he got another one.”

“What did it say?”

“That the camera across from his apartment wasn’t operating and that it was safe for me to stay there for awhile.” John watched Harold’s face as he registered that information. “The Machine is still with us, Harold. It’s trying to help us.”

“I don’t know if it’s aware of the danger,” Harold said, looking worried.

“I think it’s very much aware.” John reached to grip Harold’s uninjured shoulder. “It was trying to see to it that I was taken care of. It made sure that I found you. I don’t think it would have sent me your location if it was going to put you in more danger.”

“That remains to be seen,” Harold said, not looking very reassured. “Have you seen the news reports? People are being killed, shot down in the streets. It could be only a matter of time until…” his voice grew hushed, “… until _they_ find us.”

“Harold, no one can hear us here. I’ve made sure this location is secure.”

Harold glanced around the room sheepishly, as if to confirm John’s words. “I’m sorry. Old habits.”

“I know. It’s all right.” He got to his feet, realizing he was crowding Harold on the couch. Bear whined and John poured some water into a pan for him and set it down on the floor. The dog lapped at it eagerly. 

Harold sat up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Wishing there was more he could do for him, John poured Harold another cup of water too. Then he sat beside his friend.

“Have you considered that it may only be a matter of time before the machine contacts us with a number?” 

Harold looked up, his face stricken. “Why would it do that? It would compromise us too much.”

“You told me a long time ago that the numbers never stop coming,” John pointed out.

“They don’t, but...” Harold’s voice trailed off and he shuddered. “I can’t think about that.”

“Being contacted?” John asked, “Or people out there that need our help? The Machine is going to start sending us numbers again. If it’s contacting us with these messages, that’s sure to be the next step.”

“John.” Shaking his head, Harold looked away. “We were too naïve. Had too much hubris, to even think we were making a difference. In the long run, I should have seen that eventually we would run out of time and options. We’re lucky we escaped with our lives and we don’t even know how long we have.”

As if to echo his fearful sentiments, sirens sounded nearby. John stood, going to the one window in the office. He cautiously pulled the blind back just enough to glance outside. Five police cars had pulled up to the warehouse. 

“What’s going on, John?” Harold had moved behind him, his voice shaking. 

As John watched, the cops got out of their cars, heading for the entrance to the building, guns drawn. Before he could speak, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and found a new text.

“The authorities are not there for you. Remain in your location. You are secure.”

He showed the phone to Harold. 

“We’re sitting ducks,” he gasped out. “We should try to get out of here –“

“No,” John clapsed his arm. “I’m going with the Machine’s word on this one. If we try to leave now, they’ll notice us and that would be more dangerous.”

He continued watching out the window, aware of Harold trembling next to him. After a few moments, the police came out, leading three men in handcuffs. It was hard to tell from John’s vantage point, but the men looked foreign. Once they’d put them in the cars, the police climbed in too and it was over in less than five more minutes. 

Harold sighed, his face looking pale. John couldn’t stop himself from reaching for him. He pulled him into his arms, relishing the feel of having him this close again, knowing their safety was illusory. Yet he couldn’t help himself, he kissed Harold on the mouth, deepening the kiss only gradually, as Harold’s trembling began to lessen and he opened to John. Harold’s arms stole around John’s back, tightening, his fingers gripping John’s shirt.

John broke the kiss. “It’s going to be all right,” he soothed. “I’ve got you.” He steered Harold back to the couch, sitting next to him as he eased the other man down. “We’re all right. The Machine is watching us. It’s watching out for us.”

“You said you never really trusted it,” Harold said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“If you recall,” John said lightly, “I did say that I trusted you. And I think if I trust you, then I have to trust the Machine because you built it.”

“You’re just saying that,” Harold said though it was obvious he wasn’t really chiding John.

John kissed his cheek. “Harold, I don’t want us to be out of touch.”

“It’s too difficult. It has to seem as though we accidentally ran across each other, the way you passed me the address in the park. We can’t make phone calls or meet regularly.”

“We can set up a system,” John said. “We can use things other than our phones. I can… leave something on the park bench that lets you know I want to meet in twenty-four hours, something like that.”

Harold looked interested. “You know, when Bob Woodward wanted to meet with ‘Deep Throat’ he would place a potted plant with a red flag on the balcony of his apartment building.”

John grinned. “So, you’re saying I’m your Deep Throat?”

Harold’s eyes went soft and he languidly looked John up and down. “We could choose another code,” he said, his voice teasing. 

“Or I could demonstrate…” John kissed him, tongue sliding into his throat. Then he slid to his knees and put one hand on each of Harold’s thighs, parting them. He settled down, unzipping Harold’s pants. He took him out, smiling to find he was already hard. John wet his lips, but paused, looking up. “Don’t think about anything,” he whispered. “Not our Machine, not Samaritan, not our situation. Just feel me here with you.” Then he bent and took Harold deep. 

He felt the other man’s fingers gripping his hair, directing his movements. Harold’s hips surged, lifted, his cock throbbing in response. John used his lips, his tongue, his fingers, everything he knew about Harold, to make this good for him, to transport him from the seedy old office they were in, from the broken down vinyl couch, from the cold new world in which they were hiding. For as long as he could, he would make love to Harold, keep him safe, take away his fears. And in so doing, John’s own fears and guilt would be kept back as well. 

It was all they had right now. It would be enough.

Harold moaned John’s name, his cock surging as he came.

John swallowed. Harold tasted like he did the first time John had done this for him, like he did every time, like he did in John’s dreams. He tasted like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to get this posted much earlier, but the bad fall I had last month has caused me to have headaches a lot and last night and today I had another one. Finally my brain cleared enough to complete this chapter and get it posted, just in time, with only a little over an hour to spare before Panopticon airs in Eastern Standard Time. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this fic. I've enjoyed writing it.


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